A/N: Thanks to those who reviewed my first chapter! This is one is a little longer, but still fairly short. When I wrote this, it was basically just a fanciful description of the Underworld as I imagined it, but as I was writing later chapters, Hades' past took a much darker turn than I expected, so I went back and added some introspection here. The overall story is not that dark! Most of it is very loving and fluffy. This is probably the darkest chapter in the entire story, I just wanted to give some background as to why Hades is so feared, and why he reacts in certain ways to Persephone. I also wanted to show that things are not what they seem, so when Persephone reaches the Underworld, it's going to be a bit different. Also, in case you can't tell, I had a lot of fun naming different minerals. You'll see a lot more of that when Persephone arrives.
Chapter 2: The God of Riches
Hades allowed his Nightmares to race onward, trailing blood and smoke in their wake. He reached out with his power, and the ground opened a dark chasm under them. The Nightmares plunged downward without hesitation. They passed through the realm of the earth, and emerged elsewhere. They flew over a vast, echoing cavern, leading the chariot ever downward. The air was dank and cold, and the only light down here came from pale fungus and the Nightmares' breaths.
They touched down and rode onward. Hades did not look around at his kingdom. His thoughts were still with his sister, Demeter. It was obvious she still feared him. He didn't blame her. In order to defeat the Titans during the war, he had become like them: a monster. When he was young he was full of rage and bitterness. It had been easy to escape into the blood. His shape transformed, so that he wasn't even recognizable anymore. There was no telling what kinds of atrocities he had committed while he raged, and killed, and feasted on the flesh of the enemy. He didn't remember most of it himself, just that awful feeling of emptiness, and trying to smother it with warfare.
There was nothing remotely good or humanoid left in him by the time the war ended. His siblings forced him back into his original shape, but it was foreign to him. They cringed away from the sight of him. The damages he had done to himself were irreversible. He was not… who he had been. He was broken inside, more closely tied to his powers than before. That was why he bore scars no one else did. That was why his shadow was unlike anything they had ever experienced.
There were times when he wondered if the other Olympians had gotten it wrong, had confused him, a monster, with their true brother. There were times when he didn't recognize any of them. He no longer had a connection to his family. He would have as gladly eaten them as ignored them. All he knew was that despite the so-called siblings standing beside him, he was alone. His soul was crying out for comfort, trying to remember his humanoid form, and they drew away from him. There were things even the gods would not countenance, and he had committed them all.
When it came time to draw lots for their father's kingdom, it was rigged from the start. Hades—if he really was Hades—as the oldest should have ruled everything. But no one would have followed him. They couldn't trust him to not revert to his old ways of death and anger. He didn't fight when he drew the Underworld. He was relieved.
In those days, the entire Underworld had been like Tartarus. It was all burning, pain, and screaming. It matched the agony in his soul. He sank to the Underworld and took his wrath out on it. It fought back at him. They attacked each other mercilessly, an unstoppable force clashing with an unmovable object. The more he fought, the more he hurt, and the greater the pain, the greater the rage.
But time heals everything, even broken gods. The Underworld was damaged almost beyond repair. It reflected himself: barren, worn down, nearly extinguished with only a faint corner that still burned with blood. He lived in the darkness for too long to remember. He tried to slip into oblivion unnoticed, but it would not take him.
And so, slowly, he began to build. The rivers and waters came first. Something odd began to happen. As he created form out of the chaos, he felt the substance of the Underworld stir at his touch. He was never quite sure if he created it, or it created him. The dead were a never ending stream always coming to his kingdom, and he was tired of sentencing everyone to Tartarus.
The fields of Asphodel came next. Let the dead lie there, as forgotten as he was! But it wasn't enough, was it? Because some people truly did deserve Tartarus, and some deserved more than to be forgotten. Eventually Elysium was made from within him. That wasn't the end. The bowels of the earth spoke to him, telling him of the mineral veins and riches contained within. He wanted no part of them, but for the first time in eons the other Olympians contacted him, and it was these riches that they sought.
He found their world to be bright, harsh and cruel compared to the darkness of his kingdom. He craved contact with the others, but could not bear their presence, just as they could not bear his. He sent up a pittance of the jewels he found, and it was enough to keep them happy with baubles. And still, he was changing. His rage, his monstrous-self had nearly destroyed the Underworld and himself alongside it. Now he learned to control it. In the lack of other companions, he found strange other gods that belonged to the Underworld, lesser than he, but still vital to his kingdom: Thanatos, the god of Death, and Hecate, the goddess of witchcraft. He made them his advisors, and what they found to be too heinous, he shunned.
Sometimes, he began to remember himself. Remember caring for his siblings in their father's belly. He supposed that meant he really was Hades, or at least he was the monster that had eaten Hades and stolen his memories. He learned to contain himself. He learned to control his shadow, that unconscious part of himself that was now extended outside his body. Just like his transformation from god to monster, his metamorphoses from monster to god was painful, irreparable. He left something of himself behind, but he would always remember what it was to be a monster. His veneer of godliness was very thin, and it didn't take much to break it.
He made mistakes at times. Those were the stories that were told in hushed whispers, that made the other gods fear him. He didn't mind the fear, because it kept the others at a distance. It kept him from hurting them. Realizing that he didn't want to hurt others was a turning point, and he regained parts of himself that he thought were lost for good. Still, something was missing.
While his brothers reproduced at a frankly alarming rate, he remained alone. As his awareness grew, so did a feeling of emptiness. He began to regret the terror others saw when they looked at him. They did not like his company, and nor did he like theirs. But he was too alone to forsake them completely. So it was for a very long time, his visits sporadic and brief. He was merely passing through when he'd noticed Demeter's distress. He did not understand the constant drive to couple the other gods had, having never experienced it himself. It seemed to him that it was rather more trouble than it was worth. But he was glad to be of service to Demeter, if only for a little time.
He dragged his mind from the past to the present, noting where he was. The Nightmares followed a broken road lined with stone piles that slowly resolved themselves into ruins. They rode through a dead town, the buildings long fallen over and crumbled. Ghosts and lost souls wandered aimlessly through forgotten streets. Some were clearly visible as people, but others were barely seen as wisps. The Nightmares did not slow down or go around the shades; they took a sadistic pleasure in running down the spirits. Some, the most coherent, were tumbled by their passage, but the less cohesive ones were not affected.
The ruins grew larger in size as they reached a more affluent area of the old town. These buildings were no better maintained than the others. One could only guess at what they used to be, homes, shops, schools. But no temples. There were no temples in the Underworld. Turning a corner, the largest ruin of all loomed above them, something that once might have been a castle to rival Zeus' sky palace. It was a sorry corpse now, ancient and decomposing.
The chariot continued past the broken castle, and they left the dead town behind them. There was only emptiness around them now, broken occasionally by a weary ghost trudging onward. The ghosts began to grow more numerous as a fog rose up around them. Still the chariot did not slow. The spirits that saw them leapt out of the way, the Nightmares snapping at their heels. The sound of moving water grew, and resolved into the steady surrush of a river. The souls were gathered in a crowd now, waiting for something unseen. The mist was so thick now it was impossible to see more than a few feet in front of the carriage. The shades gave out an eerie light of their own that only made the darkness seem more complete. The breath of the Nightmares and Hades rose as rapid steam that became part of the fog.
Suddenly the bank of a river came into view. The water was liquid shadow, tiny ripples of current showing on the surface. The far side was hidden in the thick mist. Briefly a wide-bottomed boat came into view, loading new souls as they paid a single coin each to the ferryman. The Nightmares were going far too fast to stop at the edge of river. Instead they leapt into the air, dragging the chariot with them. It was an impossibly far leap; the river was over a mile across, but the Nightmares held their position, seeming to float through the air.
Abruptly the mist thinned in front of them, and they landed on the opposite river bank. Everything changed. The first river bank had been barren, cold and dark, but this one was lit cheerily—and macabrely—by thousands of torches that leant their warmth to the air. There was another town here, not worn down and broken but in good repair. The ghosts here all had definite form and were filled with purpose as they carried out their tasks.
The Nightmares and chariot had changed as well. Two of the Nightmares disappeared as if they never existed. The other two lost their fearsome appearances, and were now ordinary horses. One was a bright palomino, while the other was a shining teak bay. The chariot was no longer black, but blue streaked with gold: lapis lazuli. The spokes of the wheels were a bold carnelian red, the rims a streaked blue-green malachite.
Hades too had changed. His tight, formal clothes loosened considerably. His cloak was garnet red, and his shirt took on the blue-grey sheen of labradorite. His pants were a soft, agate grey. Tiny gemstones glinted along his collar and the hems of his shirt and clothes, lending a hint of color. Diamonds glinted as cufflinks on his sleeves. His skin took on a slightly rosier glow, looking healthier than before. His hair was still dark, but reflected the red torchlight in odd tones. Only by looking very closely could one tell that it wasn't black at all, but the darkest of sapphire blues. His eyes were no longer the dull death-shroud grey, but bright silver, lit by an inner glow.
Hades sighed and rolled his shoulders. His aura, his power, flowed out of him, no longer tightly constrained but allowed to have free rein in his domain. His shadow grew and stretched behind him, a visible manifestation of his power.
The horses trotted along a well-known path through the town. They no longer mowed down the shades, but moved at a slow enough pace to allow them to get out of the way. As before, the buildings slowly got larger, until the horses stopped before the stairs of a massive palace.
If the broken castle on the other side of the river could have rival Zeus' sky palace, then this one far surpassed it. It was built on spare, plain lines, but the building materials were very fine. The walls were fine marble of subtle sheen, inlaid with precious stones of all kinds and worked with fine metals. It could have been ostentatious, but instead everything had an understated glory. It looked ordinary until one took a second glance, and only then did the wealth of the materials become apparent.
Two people stood on the stairs of the palace, waiting for their god to arrive. Ghostly stable-hands came out to claim the chariot and horses as Hades alighted from his perch.
"My Lord," Thanatos and Hecate greeted him respectfully, inclining their heads. He nodded to them as he climbed the stairs, and they followed, careful not to step in his shadow, which—if one looked closely—did not precisely mimic his motions. For those who knew him well, his shadow was almost as good of an indication of his mood as a dog's ears and tail. Now it was blacker than usual, but also somewhat thin. He was frustrated, but also tired.
Thanatos and Hecate eyed his shadow and exchanged looks of concern. Hecate told one of the shade-servants to bring food and drink to the master's study, while Thanatos sent another ahead to make sure a fire was lit. Hades entered his study to find it warm and welcoming. A faint smile touched his lips, and his shadow appeared to relax somewhat.
Instead of going to his desk, he sat on the couch before the fire, giving a deep sigh. His shadow flexed, spread out over the couch, then returned to pool at his feet like a contented dog. He was glad to be home. The rooms furnishings had the same care as the palace. Expensive materials were used, but hidden with practical designs.
Hecate handed him a glass of warm mulled wine, which he sipped gratefully.
"How was your trip, my lord?" Thanatos ventured.
Hades snorted. "Zeus finally managed to seduce Demeter. There will be Tartarus to pay for that, mark my words." His voice was deep but soft, carrying an unmistakable power. As Demeter had noted in the sky palace, there was a trace of pity in his tone. He knew nothing good came of Zeus' dalliances.
"Did you enjoy frightening the immortals, my lord?" Hecate asked.
He made an indistinct noise in the back of his throat. Sometimes he enjoyed the fear his inspired. Sometimes he didn't. "How is it that no one ever remembers that I'm also the god of riches?" he asked rhetorically.